Devil Water (29 page)

“The turnkey,” she whispered, pushing distractedly at her hair, searching for her mask. “He’ll be here, directly. Oh, Charles --”

He nodded, squaring his shoulders. “Betty, if you love me, do what you can to help James.”

“I will,” she breathed. “I will.”

“And you’ll be back here to see me soon -- darling?”

She clenched her fingers on the fold of her skirt, they both heard the grating of the key in the lock outside, she pulled her hood over her head. “I will be back,” she said in a strangled voice. “God forgive me, I can’t help it.”

On Thursday evening, February 23, James sat alone in his prison in the Tower. He had placed the writing table by the window, from which he could see the workmen building by torchlight the scaffold on Tower Hill. James looked from the window to a large wooden crucifix on the wall by the fireplace. The crucifix had been permitted him these last days, as had been the constant visits of his chaplain, Father Brown, now known as Mr. Pippard. It was safer that nobody should guess his priest had lived at Dilston, and had been associated with the Rising.

The Father should have been back long ago, James thought, dipping his pen in the ink. There were still many prayers his soul needed, more ghostly comfort that the priest could provide. And the Mass. This had been promised him. The implements of the Mass were waiting in the chest. And yet the hour grew later. The few and precious hours. God strengthen me, James thought, and returned to the farewell letter he was writing to his aunt, Lady Mary Radcliffe in Durham. He wrote, “I recommend my poor brother, Charles, if he come off, to your care. He hath behaved himself nobly . . .”

It was past eight when the priest came, and two Beefeaters with him, nor did they leave as they usually did. In their scarlet Tudor tunics and flat hats they stood impassively, their crossed halberds barring the door.

“What is this?” said James to Father Brown. “Are they so eager for my life they can’t leave me alone until the morrow?”

“It is because Lord Nithsdale has escaped, my lord,” said the priest. “This afternoon. His wife sneaked him out disguised as a woman. The Tower is now locked throughout. I had great trouble getting in. And -- and --” The priest faltered. He looked with anguished pity at the young man before him. So thin, he was -- Derwentwater had been fasting for days. And so composed, an exalted light in his hollow eyes.

“Now they will not let my wife see me again? Is that what you hesitate to say?” asked James softly, and the priest bowed his head.

The Earl rose from the writing table and knelt down before the crucifix. The priest caught some of the beseeching words. “Father Thy will be done.
Fiat! Fiat! . .
. Nail to Thy cross the black and frightful scroll of my sins, there to be canceled by Thy life-giving blood!” The kneeling figure swayed, and Father Brown rushed to him. “My lord. You must take meat, some wine! You must not grow faint now.”

“I do not!” James rose, and gave the priest his peculiarly sweet smile. “But why need I be careful of this carcase which will soon be the food of worms? You must comfort Ann, Father. When this is over. Tell her, as I shall by letter tonight, that she is my dearest worldly treasure, my dear great comfort. That she must take courage and call upon God Almighty, to whom I shall deliver up my soul trusting that through the merits of Our Saviour’s passion, I shall obtain peace at last.”

“In God’s Mercy,” murmured the priest. He put his hand to his wet eyes, then shook his head violently. “But there’s still time, my lord! Still hope of reprieve! The Lords Nairn and Carnwath are reprieved, at least for a while. You must not doubt that you will be! Her ladyship is certain of it!”

Suddenly James’s quiet exaltation was pierced.
Was
there yet hope? He thought of all that Ann had done in the past days since she had extricated herself from the Tower by pleading her pregnancy and the fear of smallpox. She had gone to the Duchess of Cleveland. She had rallied all his other Stuart cousins. She had forced another hearing in the House of Lords, in the House of Commons. She had gone, groveling, weeping, to King George himself, clutching at his coat as he would have passed her in the gallery. Ann had not known whether her plea had moved the King, since he gave no sign and spoke only in German. But she reported that he seemed to look on her with pity, and it was after that Baron Waldegrave came to the Tower and saw James. He had brought a proposition in the King’s name. “If you will recant, Derwentwater,” he said, “if you will only put aside your papistry, then I believe I can assure you of the King’s forgiveness.”

“And can you also assure me of
God’s
forgiveness?” James asked.

The Baron had left with an angry shrug. They had come again yesterday while Ann was with him. This time the proposition was that he should only seem to read a Protestant Book of Sermons, as though he were considering. Even Ann had pled that he should do this; he saw now her piteous tear-stained face as she had begged him, and heard the cry she gave, when he refused. “Would you have me give people any handle to suspect that I doubt my Faith?” he said to her. “Had I a thousand lives I’d sooner part with them than that.”

Strong words, and passionately meant. But
was
there hope the King might be moved to mercy without extorting the impossible bargain? Again James looked out of the window, where the scaffold was abuilding on Tower Hill. “Since Nithsdale has escaped, while Nairn and Carnwath are reprieved, there are then but three of us to mount that scaffold on the morrow,” he said to the priest, who was on his knees by the chest setting out the sacrament for the Mass. Father Brown looked up quickly, “Widdrington too, I hear, will be reprieved. Lady Cowper herself has demanded her cousin’s life.” A worthless life compared to yours, the priest thought, and he added softly, “So you see, there’s hope, my lord.”

“I dare not think so,” said James. “Nay, then ‘tis to be Lord Kenmure, poor old man, and me. An English Catholic peer and a Scottish Protestant one -- as scapegoats. Perhaps ‘tis fitting.”

“No! No!” cried the priest harshly. “ ‘Tis not fitting for
your
You’re young, you are but twenty-six. We’ll pray again to Our Blessed Lady, She who works miracles!”

James made a weary motion with his hand, as though to stop the other’s vehemence. “ ‘Tis true,” he said, “I do not want to die. Yet I fear I shall. I think I knew this long ago, on a day up the Devil Water at Dilston, when a red leaf fluttered to my feet -- Father, are you ready to celebrate the Mass?”

The following afternoon, Friday the 24th, Alec Armstrong waited outside Charles’s cell in Newgate. The valet’s jaunty young face was drawn with sorrow, his eyes red-rimmed from tears. Alec paced up and down the damp stone passage, under the sardonic eye of Muggles, the turnkey, who squatted on a stool, picking his teeth, and occasionally swigging from a jug by his feet. “Won’t let ye in?” said Muggles. “Wouldn’t let the ordinary in neither -- said ‘e’d fry in ‘ell, afore ‘e’d see a Protestant chaplain! Tykin’ it ‘ard, Radcliffe is. Thought ‘e’d throttle me, wen I told ‘im it was over. Threw me out o’ ‘is cell, and ‘as propped the furniture against the door. We could force in, but ‘e’s acting like a madman.”

“Damn you!” said Alec. “Why couldn’t you wait for
me
to tell him! I was there. I know how his lordship died. It was -- it was --” Alec’s face crumpled as he searched for a word, and could find none except an inadequate one from his Northumbrian homeland. “It was douce,” he finished in a whisper.

The turnkey shrugged and took another swig. “Couple a rebel ‘eads rolled todye -- Darntwater and Kenmure,” he said with relish, “an’ there’ll be plenty o’ rebel necks twisted too on a length o’ rope. ‘
lm
in there,” he pointed a dirty finger at Charles’s door, “ ‘is turn soon. Naow, naow -- ‘oo’s this?” he added, as a man’s hurrying figure showed in the passage.

Alec looked and recognized the priest, Father Brown. “Thank God, ye’ve come, sir,” said Alec in the priest’s ear. “I’m afeared for my master -- that he’ll do himself a hurt.”

“Ye can’t see Mr. Radcliffe,” growled the turnkey. “Nobody can wi’out there’s orders.” He jangled his huge keys, and looked contemptuously at the newcomer’s plain black suit and cheap little tie-wig. Not even a sword, and no sign of a purse, either. Some starveling clerk.

“I
have
orders,” said Father Brown. “From Lord Townshend,
and
Mr. Pitts, your superior.” He took a parchment covered with seals from his pocket. Muggles couldn’t read, but he recognized the seals with annoyance.

“Well, get in, if ye can,” he said, folding his arms. “I’ve unlocked the door.”

Father Brown went to the grating on Charles’s door and opened the shutter. In the dark cell he could dimly see a figure lying prone on the floor, and he heard horrible convulsive sounds, like a wounded animal’s.

“Charles Radcliffe!” said the priest through the grating. The figure moved on the stone floor. “Let me alone!” cried a high distorted voice. “God blast you, let me be!”

“I have come as from your brother James,” said the priest clearly and slowly. “I bear a letter from him to you. Will you refuse to receive it?”

There was no movement inside for a time, then he heard a hoarse murmur, “Who is it?”

“One who’s here to bring you comfort,” said the priest, praying that Charles would recognize his voice, as he would not the name of Pippard.

Soon he heard the scraping of furniture on the floor, as Charles unbarricaded the door. The priest walked in, and groping for a candle, lit it at the nearly dead fire. “My poor boy,” he whispered when he saw Charles. “My, poor, poor lad.” He reached up and placed his hand on Charles’s head in benediction. “I see you’re wild with grief. But you must
not
be! Lord Derwentwater is a saint. He died for his Faith as truly as ever did the early Christian martyrs.”

“He is dead,” Charles said. “Dead. I can’t believe so horrible a thing.”

Nor can I, thought the priest, sternly quelling a wave of nausea. One must forget now that flashing of the headsman’s axe as his lordship spoke the name of Jesus. And the fountain of blood which spurted on the avid groaning crowd. And the shaven head which rolled off the scaffold. And the shameful squabbling of the Tower warder and the executioner for Derwentwater’s clothes and wig. Forget these memories of mortal dissolution.

“Take your letter, sir,” said the priest holding out a folded piece of paper. “Except for her ladyship and his son, his last worldly thoughts were of you.”

Charles took the letter and broke the Radcliffe seal -- their crest of the black bull. How often had he seen James use the ring which made this seal, how often had he seen this generous broad writing. Charles shivered, he leaned near the candle, but his aching eyes were dim, he could not decipher all, though the phrases which he read were like James speaking.

Dear Brother,

You have behaved yourself like a man of true honour and bravery . . . God who has been so good to us both by giving us time to repent ... I have great confidence in His goodness for a merciful forgiveness for us both.

You know, dear brother, we have sometimes disputed together ... but ... I believe few brothers would have done more than I would have done to serve you. I have recommended your life ... to those I know; it may be they will be more successful on your behalf. Pray behave yourself decently and honourably, without pride; bear my death with patience, forgive my ennemies as I do; and if ever you are free, live as devoutly as ever you can . . .

It is now, dear brother, near the time of execution; -- God grant me courage to the last! And that we may meet one day in eternal bliss, is the hearty prayer of

Your constant, loving Brother,

Derwentwater . . .

Dear Brother, adieu!

Feb. 23, 1715-16.

Another shudder gripped Charles. He held the letter to his cheek, then put it inside his shirt next his breast. He crossed himself. “God rest his soul, his wondrous, kind, pure soul!” They were silent for some minutes then Charles turned quickly to the priest. “Father, tell me of what happened this morning. How did he look? What did he say?”

“He was pale, composed, visibly helped by an extraordinary grace, to the admiration of all that beheld him. It was he himself who told Lord Widdrington that he had been reprieved, and rejoiced with him heartily, so that Widdrington cried, ‘My Lord Derwentwater; were I to live a thousand years I shall never forget you! So much courage and resignation in so much youth!’ “

“
I
cannot forgive Widdrington for being alive,” said Charles through his teeth.

“And another thing,” went on the priest, unheeding, “he took with heavenly resignation, though it must have been a bitter blow. In the coach which drove him to the scaffold, he was told that King James had fled again to France. The Rebellion in Scotland is over. ‘I thought as much,’ his lordship said with the saddest of smiles. ‘But now I’ve come to see it matters
not;
which I did not rightly understand, and then he added, ‘The cause is ever bigger than the man, and even Our Lord’s disciples themselves had weaknesses.’ “

“ ‘Twas like James,” said Charles very low. “Did he say nothing later from the -- the scaffold?”

“Aye, indeed. As he stood looking over the heads of the vast silent crowd in his black velvet suit, and black plumed hat and long flaxen wig, his golden crucifix hanging plain for all to see, he told them that he bitterly regretted pleading guilty at his trial, having never had any other than King James the Third for rightful sovereign, and he said, ‘Though King James had been a different religion from mine, I should have done for him all that lay in my power, as my ancestors have done for his predecessors, being thereunto bound by the laws of God and man.’“

Charles shut his eyes. Dear Brother, he thought. Christ forgive me that I ever doubted you.

“And do you know,” the priest continued, speaking with sudden passion, “that four times in all they offered him his life, if he would forswear Catholicism? Four times, and each time he refused with gallantry and a wondering contempt. Ah, is this not the stuff of saints and martyrs!”